Durbar

The review of "Durbar" by Tavleen Singh in some newspaper or the other prompted me to buy the book. I haven't read any of this veteran journalist's other books but assumed it would be an interesting read. And it was. The story starts with Tavleen as the newbie journalist, learning the ropes as Emergency is declared in India. She gets to know people close to the Gandhi family and is privy to intimate dinner parties and social occasions where she meets Rajiv (then still a pilot), Sonia and the other Gandhis. Her impressions, good and bad, of the Gandhi clan are interspersed with various assignments across the country - Operation Bluestar in Punjab, Kashmir and later the IPKF intervention in Sri Lanka.

The book is racy and gripping. I got to thinking about what a monentous decade and a half that was - the Emergency onwards to Rajiv's assassination in 1991. There are a lot of memories, too many in fact.

Chennai, 1991. I remember my grandmother rocking back and forth on the sofa near the TV in our flat that hot summer day when Rajiv Gandhi was killed in Sriperumbudur. Enna azhagu, enna azhagu (how handsome, how handsome) she kept saying, tears streaming down her face, distraught at the gruesome manner of his killing.

Meerut, 1982. I remember my mom sleeping for several nights with a kitchen knife under her pillow because there were communal riots in the city and in our locality, and my dad was away. I must have been as old as Ads is now, and my brother about the same age as Y. I'm not sure whether I was frightened then. I know that the mere recollection of it gives me palpitations now! One night, we had a violent mob baying at the gate. Were they Muslim - I assume they were - otherwise why would they come attack a Hindu home in a predominantly Hindu locality? Amma fled with 2 half-asleep children across the connecting door to our landlord's house. We rushed to the terrace and hid ourselves and some of the family members threw down stones and other handy items at the mob. I have no recall of what happened later and how we escaped lynching or worse; I keep thinking about how brave my mother was and how terrified she must have been.

Lucknow, 1984. I remember that morning on TV and hearing that the Prime Minister had been shot down by her Sikh security guards. There were angry crowds roaming the streets, attacking Sikh neighbourhoods and homes. They were barging into every house and demanding to know whether any Sardars lived there. All I could hear from the inside of our house was a loud angry hum. There was an atmosphere of deep tension in the house. Amma asked me to keep writing Sri Ramajayam in my diary and that monotonous exercise calmed me down. Incredibly scared, I focused all my energies on filling up the pages and with every letter I drew, I prayed really hard that the mobs should go away and peace return to our street and the city.

I was left with a lot of admiration for this gutsy lady journalist who went willingly into some very dangerous situations, spent years following political campaigns and travelling the length and breadth of the country, and hobnobbed with the high and mighty of the land.

Yes, those were stirring times. Durbar brought all those years back in bright technicolour. I think for that reason alone I liked the book, spicy backroom palace gossip and all. Sometimes all you need to enjoy a book is a large dose of reminiscences!